


The aeroplane trails outside my window

by Amurleopard123



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Execution, How Do I Tag, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 23:37:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16942878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amurleopard123/pseuds/Amurleopard123
Summary: A strange paraphrase for the abuse over the end of the second and third books. Highly strange. I really have no idea where I was going with this. Sort of like Neil is going to a symbolistic execution, copied from some Australasian country that still uses hanging as a death penalty, can't remember which one





	The aeroplane trails outside my window

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this while quite anxious, still coming off a kind of short term med that makes me a bit dizzy, so sorry if I don't make any sense! More notes at the end, though I don't have much to say.

He liked watching the flight paths over his prison. It gave him the illusion, that somewhere, someone was leaving, escaping. It was a strange, unusual comfort. He daydreamed that another boy was on those planes. Someone who seemed dear to him in a far off life. It was long gone from him now, the hope that had burned and withered. Now he could only dream, lost in the maze of delirium, the juice of insanity slowly dropping on cracked lips as listless blue eyes stared at those thin white ribbons of cloud.

The chill of the nights no longer gnawed at his bones quite so deeply.  
The fog of his mind no longer bothered him, as he could no longer comprehend its existence.  
The men who came to his cell to cut him and take pleasure in him no longer affected him. He was far beyond broken.  
Now, he waited for death.  
The heavy tilt of a guardsman's footsteps, staggered by drink and heavy with grisle and fat. The man who holds his key posts the bread and empty paper cup through the door. He wastes a single glance at the bread. It is stale, mouldy and crawling with larvae. The water cup is soft and breakable, but it is enough to stick outside his grate and drink greedily from the tainted riverwater that runs down the street, into the sewers. He has not eaten for a while now. He wonders how long it's been. Long enough for his muscles to shrink into bone and his arms turn into that of a tin man's, spindly and crumpling.  
Sometime in that long winter, someone opens the door. They call his name in a language he used to know so well. Before it was tainted. When he does not move, they drag him from his freedom, away from that last patch of sky. That last square of now.  
They drag him through a doctor's office. He drips blood on the white floor, and smears dirt wherever he treads. They weigh him and take his height. They argue.  
The guards call for his head  
The king wants a souvenir  
They say  
The doctor disagrees and writes out the length of rope and the drop on a piece of paper.  
The next thing he knows, he's outside again.  
He can see the sky.  
People are gathered round in a large circle. None of them are those who he knew. The idea of a yellow haired boy with eyes of rock and a tongue of ash comes to him  
Is he safe?  
No. All he must think of now is this.  
The sides of the drop are stained with flowers of rust brown, dried into the sand.  
The king looks on impassively. He grants the boy a cruel smile.  
The boy hums.  
The rope is measured  
The drop is calculated  
He will suffocate slowly  
Or  
His neck will break  
Or  
He will lose his head to the rabid ravens below.  
He sees a glimmer of orange  
He smiles in triumph.  
He forsakes his necklace before it can twist his neck away.  
He falls  
They catch him.  
The man who decided to build people out of ruins.  
The girl who has seen far too much of the lust hidden in some people's eyes.  
The boy, raised among those rich enough to desecrate their own bodies, so believed he could do the same to his own.  
The girl who decided her own path, and was ostracised by those she loved once.  
The boy who trusted just a little too much.  
The girl who had seen another dark side to people, the lust and hate and brutalities.  
The boy, raised to live for one thing alone, left to die when he no longer had a use.  
The boy who blamed all the wrong people and suffered for it.  
And last of all, the boy who shared his face with another. Who had suffered so much and borne it all. Who had become unrecognisable. The others melted into the shadows, leaving him alone with this boy who was his destruction before and his salvation now. And he stared at him, apathy melting into something else in his eyes.  
The broken-cat boy with the face of another stared down the bluebird boy with the face of his father.  
This bloodstained boy, now free from his father, said one thing alone.  
‘Andrew?’  
The boy who used to laugh at the pain of his trauma reached for those parchment brittle fingers, curling them into his gold-blond hair, curving his own hands round the back of the other boy's neck.  
‘I will always be the man who said he would keep you alive’  
And somehow  
In a world where both had suffered from all the different shades of heartlessness and apathy.  
That was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> So! Hope you could bear with that, short though it is. Point out any spelling mistakes that you can't attribute to the American-British English difference ( me being English). Kudos and comments appreciated! The metaphors and shit are strange as heck, sorry.


End file.
